


Mornings

by toli-a (togina)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: 1930s, Fluff and Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-05
Updated: 2016-08-05
Packaged: 2018-07-29 13:44:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7686823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/togina/pseuds/toli-a
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve is not a morning person.<br/>Bucky is not a saint.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mornings

**Author's Note:**

> As always, reposted from tumblr. I'm certain this was a prompt, and I have no idea what it was.

Steve normally wakes up slow, in the morning, murmuring replies to his mother’s calls while still lingering over the dregs of his dream, face buried in his pillow to block out the invading light. Even after he rolls out of bed he stays hazy with sleep, shuffling over to the chair, rubbing his eyes and just as likely to try to shave with his spoon as he is to scoop up his breakfast.

It’s only about an hour after he tumbles into his desk that Steve’s mind catches up to the rest of the world, staring at the board and suddenly realizing what the pencil in his hand is for. The first class of the day is religion; Father Johnson thinks Steve is one of God’s creatures, but not one among the brighter of the bunch.

By age seventeen, Steve’s accustomed to the thick fog of mornings, the dappled light shifting too quickly to follow, the warm tones of his mother’s voice and the shrieked squabbling of Lizzie and Alice when the Barnes clan waits at his door on their walk to school.

Sometimes, though, Steve wakes up quick, jerked to consciousness with a sharp pinch and a jarring splash—sometimes Bucky stays the night.

Everyone thinks that Bucky is the next St. Francis of Assisi, and that Steve is the flock of wild birds. “You’re such a good lad,” Mrs. Mulroney says, when she sees Bucky carrying Steve’s bag. “It’s so nice of you to let him play,” Mr. Koenig declares, clapping Bucky’s shoulder, ignoring the boys playing ball too near his window once he sees Bucky next to Steve. “Look at how gentle that boy is,” the Mrs. Smiths—three in one building—coo, sitting on their stoop and fawning over Bucky as he offers Steve the last square on a chocolate bar.

Steve wakes up quick, gasping for air and already pushing off the bed to tackle Bucky onto the floor, icy water still dripping from his hair.

(Bucky liked to steal Steve’s bag and take off running after school, only slowing down when Steve started cursing, smiling winsomely at the old ladies who grimaced at Steven Rogers’s ungrateful language toward his _helpful_ friend. Steve played centerfield because it was directly behind where Bucky played second base; when a window broke, Bucky showed up at the door looking contrite, dragging Steve by the shoulder and saying how _hard_ it was to catch right, for a boy with as many contrary aches and pains as Steve. Bucky—with three sisters as competition at the dinner table and faster reflexes than Steve—would snatch Steve’s chocolate bar out of his hands and jam the whole thing between his lips, chewing with his mouth wide open and his teeth coated brown, holding back the last square and handing it magnanimously over to Steve once they’d caught some gullible grown-up’s eye.)

Steve clouts Bucky in the head with the empty pail—everyone who thinks that Bucky is gentle believes that Steve must be frail, because no one looks past Bucky’s guile, and no one but Bucky looks at Steve—and they tumble onto the floor, Bucky still laughing like someone from the looney bin, high-pitched and grating and far too loud for so early in the day.

When they go to school tomorrow, Bucky will have a black eye and a busted lip - he’ll tell Father Johnson that he’d take worse for Steve, good eye wide and _such_ a helpful young man - and the priest won’t see Steve’s scowl or Bucky’s smirking wink as he turns away. And Steve will be moving slow, the first drips of a cold tickling his throat, shuffling lazily through the syrupy morning; his handkerchief will be in his breakfast bowl and his spoon folded into his knapsack, the bag slung over Bucky’s shoulder and Steve slung under his arm.


End file.
